Free Death in Holy Orders by P. D. James

of achievement as in those boyhood days.
    He had rather expected the police station to be similar to those remembered from childhood, a detached or terraced house adapted for police use, its metamorphosis marked by the blue lamp mounted outside. Instead he saw a low modern building, the façade broken by a line of dark windows, a radio mast rising with impressive authority from the roof, and the Union flag flying from a pole at the entrance.
    He was expected. The young woman at the reception desk greeted him in her attractive Suffolk voice as if it only needed his arrival to complete her day.
    “Sergeant Jones is expecting you, sir. I’ll give him a ring and he’ll be right down.”
    Sergeant Irfon Jones was dark, lean-featured, his sallow skin, only lightly tanned by wind and sun, contrasting with hair that was almost black. His first words of greeting immediately established his nationality.
    “Mr. Dalgliesh, is it? I’m expecting you, sir. Mr. Williams thought we could use his office, if you’ll come this way. He was sorry to miss you, and the chief is in London at an ACPO meeting, but you’ll know that. If you’ll just sign in, sir.”
    Following him through the side door with its opaque glass panel and down a narrow corridor, Dalgliesh said, “You’re a long way from home, Sergeant.”
    “I am that, Mr. Dalgliesh. Four hundred miles, to be exact. I married a Lowestoft girl, see, and she’s an only child. Her mam’s none too good, so Jenny’s best near home. When I got achance I transferred from the Gower. It suits me well enough, as long as I’m by the sea.”
    “A very different sea.”
    “A very different coast, and both of them just as dangerous. Not that we get many fatalities. The poor lad is the first for three and a half years. Well, there are signs up and people here-abouts know the cliffs are dangerous. They should do by now. And the coast’s isolated enough. It’s not as if you get families with children. In here, sir. Mr. Williams has cleared his desk. Not that there’s much in the way of vital evidence to look at, you might say. You’ll have coffee? It’s here, see. I’ll just have to switch it on.”
    There was a tray with two cups, their handles neatly aligned, a cafetière, a tin labelled “coffee,” a jug of milk and an electric kettle. Sergeant Jones was quickly competent if a little fussy over the procedure, and the coffee was excellent. They seated themselves in two low bureaucratic chairs placed before the window.
    Dalgliesh said, “You were called out to the beach, I believe. What exactly happened?”
    “I wasn’t the first on the scene. That was young Brian Miles. He’s the local PC. Father Sebastian telephoned from the college and he got there as soon as he could. He didn’t take long, not more than half an hour. When he arrived there were only two people by the body, Father Sebastian and Father Martin. The poor lad was dead all right, anyone could see that. But he’s a good boy, is Brian, and he didn’t like the look of it. I’m not saying he thought it was a suspicious death, but there’s no denying it was an odd one. I’m his supervisory officer, so he got on to me. I was here when the call came through just before three, and as Doc Mallinson—he’s our police surgeon—happened to be in the station, we went to the scene together.”
    Dalgliesh said, “With the ambulance?”
    “No, not at that time. I believe in London the Coroner has his own ambulance, but here we have to use the local service when we want to move a body. It was out on a call, so it took maybe an hour and a half to get him moved. When we got him to the mortuary I had a word with the Coroner’s officer and hethought the Coroner would almost certainly ask for forensics. He’s a very careful gentleman, is Mr. Mellish. That’s when it was decided to treat it as a suspicious death.”
    “What exactly did you find at the scene?”
    “Well, he was dead, Mr. Dalgliesh. Doc Mallinson certified